The Illustrious Prince eBook

“I call it one of the most sporting things I
ever heard of in my life,” Lady Grace declared
warmly.

Somerfield shrugged his shoulders.

“One must admit that he has pluck,” he
remarked critically. “At the same time
I cannot see that a single effort of this sort entitles
a man to be considered a sportsman. He doesn’t
shoot, nor does he ever ride except when he is on
military service. He neither plays games nor
has he the instinct for them. A man without
the instinct for games is a fellow I cannot understand.
He’d never get along in this country, would he,
Wilmot?”

“No, I’m shot if he would!” that
young man replied. “There must be something
wrong about a man who hasn’t any taste whatever
for sport.”

“Charlie,” she said, “you are talking
like a baby! I am ashamed of you! I am ashamed
of you all! You are talking like narrow-minded,
ignorant little squireens.”

Somerfield went slowly white. He looked across
at Penelope, but the angry flash in his eyes was met
by an even brighter light in her own.

“I will tell you what I think!” she exclaimed.
“I think that you are all guilty of the most
ridiculous presumption in criticising such a man as
the Prince. You would dare—­you, Captain
Wilmot, and you, Charlie, and you, Mr. Hannaway,”
she added, turning to the third young man, “to
stand there and tell us all in a lordly way that the
Prince is no sportsman, as though that mysterious
phrase disposed of him altogether as a creature inferior
to you and your kind! If only you could realize
the absolute absurdity of any of you attempting to
depreciate a person so immeasurably above you!
Prince Maiyo is a man, not an overgrown boy to go
through life shooting birds, playing games which belong
properly to your schooldays, and hanging round the
stage doors of half the theatres in London. You
are satisfied with your lives and the Prince is satisfied
with his. He belongs to a race whom you do not
understand. Let him alone. Don’t presume
to imagine yourselves his superior because he does
not conform to your pygmy standard of life.”

Penelope was standing now, her slim, elegant form
throbbing with the earnestness of her words, a spot
of angry color burning in her cheeks. During
the moment’s silence which followed, Lady Grace
too rose to her feet and came to her friend’s
side.

“I agree with every word Penelope has said,”
she declared.

The Duchess smiled.

“Come,” she said soothingly, “we
mustn’t take this little affair too seriously.
You are all right, all of you. Every one must
live according to his bringing up. The Prince,
no doubt, is as faithful to his training and instincts
as the young men of our own country. It is more
interesting to compare than to criticise.”

Somerfield, who for a moment had been too angry to
speak, had now recovered himself.